


i would drive on, to the end with you.

by zonetested



Category: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Jet/Poison are the main focus and all other characters listed are only around for small scenes., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-14 23:44:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16051037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zonetested/pseuds/zonetested
Summary: "you play, don't you?"





	i would drive on, to the end with you.

**Author's Note:**

> there was a photo of jetstar playing guitar floating around the web for a while, and this entire thing is based off that. if you notice errors, have constructive criticism or favorite parts comment below? thank you.

cherri’s good for a lot of things, and he owns a lot of things. he’s a good guy, that’s always agreed upon. the space in his station has been shrinking since his hoarding had started getting out of hand, again. sometimes the fab four stumble upon the mess when it’s a can or scrap shy from becoming it’s very own garbage island. it’s not ransacking if they have permission to, but do so.

 

“you’ve always got bl/ind-grade gear, cola. cough it up, old man.” ghoul pokes a finger into cherri’s chest, like all the goodies will be offered up at the press of a button. cherri only shakes his head, smile sticking out because this whole thing is ridiculous. the two go back and forth, kobra kid a few steps to the left as designated sane person-who will put a stop to the situation if things get feisty. he doesn’t mind, because he’d rather watch them bicker than catch poison and jet go goo-goo eyes over each other spelunking.

 

in the end, ghoul’s got a pair of dog tags with names shaved away, already bitten to shit from wear. poison packed a seemingly in-tune acoustic guitar into the trans am’s backseat, says it’s something jet star dug out. no one complains about the thing taking up space.

 

(..)

 

after a good while of surfing the sand, jet gives their self-appointed leader a nudge for a trade off.

 

poison moves out of the driver's seat in a second, passing through dust and dry air. he moves rigidly, still hesitant even after exiting - safe, outside the trans am. jet follows suit, moving out of the car only to move back in - this time behind the wheel. they've swapped places before, but poison never fails to be touchy over it.

 

ghoul and kobra take up the entire backseat, lazy and tangled up in a mess. the six string they picked out of cherri’s station rattles on the floor, knocking against shins. they shift uncomfortably when the guitar snags on anything. it's always hot, but today the sun is coming hard and it's all swelter. surrounding them is heat that’s trying it’s damndest to fry them all alive.

 

jet's got his hands on the wheel, weighing down on the pedal and throwing it. the speed is steady, and the ride is smooth, cutting through hot air while warm wind comes. poison can feel the car shiver. he's resting an arm where the window's tucked into the door, hand barely gripping, possessive. the wind is sweet, providing thin relief against the heat.

 

the car veers, jet cornering hard. everyone follows the lean, because it’s easier to go with the turn. the cosmic thrust lettering comes into view, letters jagged and scraped away because draculoids will claw at anything. when the trans am is in a good spot, jet leans forward and off the driver’s seat, glancing into the mirror. his jacket peels away from worn leather, sound unheard with the radio warbling.

 

poison opens his door when jet does, looking properly pissed. still holding the handle, grip gone tight. he doesn’t mean to whine, he never does, but it comes out annoyed and nasally anyway.

 

“don’t fuck up our only ride,” now facing jet, who looks like he’s only partially listening. he’s fully-turned towards ghoul, both of them chattering away about the gear. poison tries to keep on his feet, already shivering despite himself. a notch higher, voice pitching. “ _seriously_.”

 

ghoul glances his way, flapping a hand from the backseat and dismisses the comment. jet doesn’t look up. poison huffs, tasting dust in the dry air. deciding not to bother, he goes for the gas pump instead. if they want to talk, he’ll let them. he’s fiddling with the gas for a second until an attendant is breathing down his neck through a hazmat.

 

carbon’s aren’t exactly a common currency in the zones, they’re rare and most chips are kept inside battery city. on off days, a draculoid might have some tucked away, ready to be looted. poison always feels a tiny bit tortuous, picking at a dead body for gas money. the gas attendants don’t seem to care where the carbon’s come from.

 

before jet can, poison sticks himself to the driver’s seat. keeping off the pedals despite the insane urge to crash and burn. now’s not the time to think.

 

once everything’s over with, everyone’s ready to roll, poison pushes the trans am hard.

 

(..)

 

they’re nowhere near the diner by nightfall. and there’s no real road, so they don’t necessarily pull off of anything. kobra suggests setting up for a stop, says it might be a good idea, they all agree. by the time they’ve all got their shit together, it’s dark and dr. d’s nightly monologue is ending.

 

it’s his turn to provide lookout, and jet star‘s plus one to the event is the guitar. he runs a thumb across the strings, feels out the wires before strumming down once. poison catches the noise, categorizes it somewhere in the back of his mind, because the sound is good. it’s composed like it could even be a song-kind of good, something they’d hear on the stations.

 

he turns over, careful of ghoul’s outstretched arm. poison narrowly avoids breaking anyone under his boots, stepping out and seeing the shape of jet not too far from the fire. it flickers, crackling once as he walks over. the sand is soft when he moves closer, sound suddenly clear.

 

jet opens his eyes when poison’s standing beside him, not startled, only pleasantly surprised. his smile is small, like he’s maybe trying to hide it. the chord he had been playing is cut short, sound suddenly muted under a hand.

 

“you play?” poison feels dumb asking when the answer’s right in front of him. something tells him to stop standing, to sit down, but he doesn’t.

 

jet keeps it quiet, fingers twitching over the strings. “um. a little, yeah.”

 

everything’s so tense. he wishes they weren’t.

 

“do you?” interrupts poison’s train of thought. jet only smiles again, bright even in the night. poison feels like a moth in the moment, so drawn to the light. getting a grip.

 

“i do, but not as good as you.”

 

he feels too-aware of air, shy all of a sudden. jet looks away, and poison takes that as his cue to do the same. trying not to jump out of his skin. he levels himself down, tucked next to jet. the guitar is set aside to make room for the both of them.

 

(..)

 

the sun’s coming up and the heat’s warming the ground underneath them through a slow crawl. the air’s cold and completely contrasts.

 

poison huddled himself beside jet, who’s picking away, minding where the guitar’s neck is so he doesn’t get sticked **.** light is beginning to rise, painting the sky and everything below. even if feels like time had stopped, breathing terribly quiet, the sun keeps climbing with the passing seconds. it’s serene.

 

he dares to glance jet star’s way, watching the way light catches. so different without the helmet, so human. it strikes him oddly, and he tries not to stare, but really jet is like no one else. the chords stretch out until they don’t. poison blinks when his eyes are met, sound gone, suddenly aware of his awe-struck expression. now is a good time.

 

poison finds focus. “i think,” dreamily, he thinks jet star is perfect.

 

jet makes a low hum, the kind he makes when he seems distracted—but is actually listening, insanely in-tune and present. hands resting on the guitar’s body, idle.

 

“i think,” repeating, only this time sure. poison tries not to wring the life out of his wrist, suddenly so nervous. “i fall in love with you, every time i see you.”

 

blinking, stunned. poison watches him process the words, the way his eyes go wide then squint with his smile. they’re still so close, sat beside each other as a pair, breath mingling. jet leans a little closer, an inch more and they’d be touching. poison wants so bad.

 

“can i,” barely an exhale, all feeling. like a secret, kept between their breathing. “please…”

 

“anything.”

 

he follows after jet, kissing him. it’s chaste, they part after a moment. poison feels his hands tremble, he wants to pinch himself. burying away his breath, holding on tight. there’s an immediate silence that slots itself into their space, air compact inside chests. treasure is meant to be uncovered, poison exhales slowly.

 

jet is still smiling at him, expression soft. god, it makes poison’s heart soar higher than anything. the sun hasn’t moved much, but the light still leans over them and provided them their own personal spotlight. there’s no need to be showy in each other’s company then, feelings finally surfaced.

 

poison trails a hand up to jet’s cheek, tentative. so close, he can’t help but cradle. there’s the tremble again, not terror but exhilaration. dumbly, he wishes for an infinite amount of sunrises to spend together like this. poison mourns this moment coming to an end so soon. he must have been staring because jet is moving to kiss away the thought. it’s just as short as before, but it’ll stay with him forever.

 

they part when jet star slowly pulls away. grinning, giddy, he transfers the guitar into poison’s arms. he looks starstruck, more than before. poison just blinks, stunned and hooked, hands holding on.

 

on the exhale, fumbling, “what?”

 

a cheeky grin, playful. “you play, don't you?”

 

jet just smiles, soft and understanding like he won't judge even if the answer is no. poison just huffs, resituating the guitar in his arms. nervousness nails him in the neck, he swallows dryly. he prays the chords capture what he can’t say, knowing words won’t do what he means justice, love lost in translation. the strings sing, and poison dares to look for approval and is met with a sweet stare. jet wants so bad and poison thinks he’d give him anything, everything.


End file.
